At the grocery store yesterday, I overheard the person ahead of me telling the clerk that she had heard several forecasts of snow. She seemed quite concerned.
None of what she said is supported by the weather link, over there, on the sidebar.———->
I have become convinced that telly vision weather forecasters are not happy until they induce panic.
Panic is their friend. Panic is click bait.
Reality is their enemy.
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
This is just stupid.
Paying a grand for a puppy is stupid too, but, if the lady wanted a collie, let her have the damned collie.
I wouldn’t say I love animals, but I like them okay and have housed more than my share. I do contemn cruelty, but fanatical “animal lovers”–well, words fail me.
I’m running the air conditioning to dehumidify the joint.
Don’t you dare tell me that it’s a fluke of weather and not somehow related to climate.
How would you like being dragged out of a nice sound sleep, pulled out into the light, then stuffed back in your bed, all just so a bunch of old white men can have their picture taken with you?
Where is PETA when they could do some good?
In case you are not aware of it, you can indeed have a
very nice much better online life without Facebook and other social leeches media.
Vote in the real world.
If you are not willing to vote for the lesser of two evils, you will most certainly end up with the evil of two lessers.
Christian Schneider, a “conservative” columnist for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, wonders what went wrong. Here’s part of his lament:
But it’s also possible that us eggheads, sitting behind our glowing screens philosophizing about voter behavior, stopped actually going out and talking to real voters. Just as modern technology allows members of each party to live in their own virtual reality — a conservative can now go the entire day without reading or hearing a dissenting viewpoint — that same technology can cause internecine fractures within parties themselves.
For instance, a conservative who listens to talk show radio hosts such as Rush Limbaugh, Mark Levin or Sean Hannity likely has a far different assessment of the Republican Party than those who curl up with copies of National Review or the Weekly Standard, or even my regular column. While ostensibly working for the same goals, these groups might not even recognize each other if they walked by each other on the street.
Missing from his tua culpa is any recognition that his vaunted Republican intelligentsia has been complicit in rationalizing Republican lies, such as trickle-on economoics and the Great and Glorious Patriot Lie for Irag, and Republican bigotry, such as the right-wing culture war, mass incarceration, and the war on
black and brown people drugs.
The difference between the “conservative intelligentsia” and Rush Limbaugh is a difference in style only.
Genteel venality is still venality.
The buffoons on the Weather Channel seem perpetually surprised that, in a snowstorm, snow that falls from the sky lands on the ground.
Have you noticed that folks who talk about what President Obama hasn’t done almost never mention what Republicans have been doing?
Amongst collective nouns, there’s a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows, a pod of whales.
I propose a new collective: A bray of Trumps.
I really don’t need my bank’s ATM to wish me a “Happy Birthday.”
(No, today is not my birthday.)
It certainly doesn’t make me think more warmly of my bank, which is, at best, a necessary annoyance and, at worst, a corporate beast in service of mammon.
It’s rather amazing how pleasant a Sunday one can have when one does not waste it on big-time football.
Click for a larger image.
As good a definition of Hell as I’ve ever heard.
Allan Miller laments the digital diatribe. A bit:
One only has to scroll the sulfurous comments concerning an online story or opinion piece to see how toxic things have become. It’s become so bad that many publications have simply stopped fielding comments because of their sheer hatefulness.
The targets of this digital abuse may vary from the author to the commentators themselves insulting one another with sophomoric responses. “Sophomoric” is the operative word because many of these comments resemble the stuff that one finds splattered on restroom walls, public buildings and park benches.
I suspect that immediacy is part of this. Back in the olden days, emotion could dissipate while one searched for a pen or rolled paper into a typewriter. One wonders how many hateful commenters would dissipate in the time required to get a keyboard out of the drawer and attach it to one’s electronic computing device.
Listening to KCEA on Qmmp in a VM of PC-BSD in Slackware –Current while reading a Phryne Fisher mystery.
Click for a larger image.
It’s almost enough to help me forget that Virginia Beach will be under water in 50 years.
If you question the existence of “rape culture,” I commend your attention to an advertisement, which I see before me as I write this, for a new brand of rum* featuring the advertising slogan,
Seduction in a bottle.
No, I won’t name the brand.
*The world needs a new brand of rum like it needs flavored vodka.
First wine snobs.
Then beer snobs.
Now chocolate snobs.
Give me a break.
I have nothing against quality, but I expect a reasonable ROI.
Some years ago in the very early days of my time on the railroad, a couple of us went on a business trip to a regional office. At dinner one night, our host, the head of said regional office, ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon (and later stuck my coworker with the tab, but that’s another story). As he surveyed the bill for the evening, my coworker said, “I don’t care what’s on the label. No booze is worth $35.00* a glass.”
An Italian village is up in arms because a local priest spilled the beans:
Angry parents in an Italian Alpine town dressed as elves this week in protest after a Sunday school priest told their children Father Christmas didn’t exist.
“Sooner or later all children bitterly discover that Father Christmas doesn’t exist and that gifts aren’t bought by a magic sleigh pulled by reindeer but by mum and dad,” a parent told La Stampa.
I find the quotation in the second paragraph to be rather interesting. I don’t remember any bitter discoveries, nor do I remember any kids going around gleefully bursting other kids’ bubbles back in the olden days, when I was a young ‘un.
When I was little, the closest I came to a “bitter discovery” was my older cousin’s replying, when I asked him what Santa Claus brought him, “I’m too old now. Santa doesn’t visit me any more.” I puzzled at the statement at the time, and then one day it made sense. When you reach the right age, somehow you just know.
In my own family, the youngest is fully nine years younger than his siblings. The older ones freely and wordlessly united to preserve the myth for their brother. If “bitterly discovering” were somehow a rite of Christmas passage, I rather doubt that they would have done so.
Indeed, if “bitterly discovering” were part of the package, the myth would have died long ago.
Follow the link: there seem to be other, more compelling reasons to put this priest out to pasture.